


A Young Mourner

by sylviarachel



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:59:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And nobody else could have saved poor James": Captain Wentworth goes to Portsmouth to break the bad news to Captain Benwick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Young Mourner

_You will do it, Frederick, will you not?_ Harville had written. _You will go and break the news to him, and help him to bear it? There is no one else whom I should entrust with such a commission; and though you may justly name me a coward, I freely confess that I cannot undertake it myself …_

It was an ugly errand, indeed – Wentworth could ill imagine a more wretched one, though it had been his duty many a time to write to wives and parents and sisters with the grim news of a man's death at sea, or, worse, a boy's. A sailor's wife, or a sailor's betrothed, must live with the dread of hearing such news; it must shock and distress, but cannot altogether surprise her; but Benwick—! There was not the least chance that he should be in any way prepared for such an event. Wentworth approached the _Grappler_ with a dread in his heart, such as he had never felt at approaching even the most fearsome French ship of the line.

"Captain Benwick, sir?" piped a midshipman, no more than fourteen years old, in answer to Wentworth's hail. "What name, sir?"

"Wentworth, of the _Laconia_ ," Wentworth replied. "I must speak with him as soon as may be."

"Aye, sir!" The midshipman's face vanished from the starboard rail; and no more than a minute later was replaced by Benwick's, beaming with joy and pride in his new command. It smote Wentworth's heart to see him.

"Why, Wentworth!" Benwick called down to him in open-hearted welcome. "Will you come aboard? She is a beauty, is not she? —though you will say she is not the equal of the _Laconia._ I am on fire to show her to Fanny – I have written to bid her come – do not you think—"

Wentworth had not meant to give the least hint of his errand until he should have got his friend belowdecks, into the privacy of the captain's cabin; but something in his face perhaps betrayed his distress at this eager mention of Fanny – or perhaps it was only that his person, on examination, bore the signs of his nearly unbroken journey down from Plymouth – for Benwick's expression at once took on a look of wary dismay.

"I will come aboard, I thank you," he said; "I have news which cannot wait."

* * *

It was a dreadful interview; more dreadful even than all Wentworth's dire imaginings, on the road to Portsmouth. Fanny Harville had been a very superior creature, a woman of such intelligence, fortitude, and good sense as might alone have made a proper match for James Benwick – and very handsome, besides; a woman almost the equal even of— But Wentworth would not think of her: that was all over, and not to be thought of.

For the present, here was poor Benwick: and a man more broken by grief, more unequal for the moment to bearing that grief alone, could scarcely have been imagined. His face was ashen; his eyes stared wide and unseeing, and his hand trembled as he clutched at Wentworth's sleeve.

"But Fanny is safe ashore," he said, in a tone blank and uncomprehending; "she cannot … you cannot mean _Fanny_ …"

"It was a fever," said Wentworth patiently, for perhaps the third time; "the influenza. I am sorry, James – more sorry than I can say– it is but too true. It was two months ago, and indeed there can be no mistake."

And on it went, almost past bearing, until at length grief and brandy combined to put Benwick to sleep, and Wentworth stripped him of his coat and boots and tipped him into bed.

* * *

_I have broke the news to him,_ Wentworth wrote to Harville that night, by the light of a candle in the captain's cabin of the _Grappler_ ; _he bears it very ill, I fear. I cannot blame him – such a blow, at such a time! – but he ought not to be left alone. Do not be uneasy, however: for I wrote up for leave of absence before coming away from Plymouth, that I might be free to stay some days with him, should there be need; and I am determined to do so …_

He had not waited the answer to his request for leave; but he should not trouble Harville with that worry: the poor man had enough to bear.

He had himself had no sleep to speak of, since quitting Plymouth two days since; instead of seeking a berth or a hammock, however, he sat staring into the dimness. To think that he had so lately envied Benwick his good fortune! —indeed, Benwick had bid fair to be blessed with both Wentworth's luck at sea, and Harville's domestic happiness on shore; and though he trusted he had given no hint of his feelings, Wentworth had envied them both that happiness. He was sorry for it now. Perhaps indeed he was the lucky one: his heart had been broken already – _she_ had broken it, had put her faith in anyone rather than in him – and he knew better, now, than to give it again into the keeping of any woman.

And yet – and perhaps Wentworth, too, had had more brandy than was good for him – what would not he have given at this moment, to imagine her waiting for him somewhere, perhaps even now journeying to meet him—

"No!" he said aloud, thumping a fist upon the table. Benwick stirred and muttered in his sleep. "No," Wentworth repeated, more quietly; "she is not worth thinking of; she gave me up, she yielded to persuasion, when she might have trusted me and held firm; she is not worth regretting."

But regret her he did, in some corner of his proud, resentful, angry heart; and regretting her – her gentle voice, her mild dark eyes, her intelligence and good sense, and the perfect understanding which had once been between them – he at length laid his head upon the table, and went to sleep.


End file.
